


The Light-Pouring Sky

by SevereInfatuation



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Coping, Fluff, Humor, Humor but not Comedy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Modern Girl is Inquisitor, POV First Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Present Tense, Romance, Self Insert Week 2016, Spoilers, Trying desperately to cover all my bases, eluvians wooOooOOoOoOOoo, like MASSIVE spoilers, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6791743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereInfatuation/pseuds/SevereInfatuation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern girl in Thedas fic; blatant self gratification, though not everything goes perfectly. Pretty much nothing goes perfectly. The Dragon Age series is basically an outline that only captures the big, important moments in history. The real Thedas is much more intricate, much more complex, and utterly disorienting.</p><p>[Evolving tags and maturity level.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

 

My name is Miriam. I say this so that you will better understand the irony of the situation. The meaning behind the name “Miriam” is debated, evidently, and so interpretation of my given name lies in the hands of the… well, the interpreter. “Bitter”, “star”, “strong waters”, just to name a few. Predominantly, of the Hebrew origin, “rebellious”. It is also debated if the name originated in Hebrew, or, as the Israeli Levite names are commonly Egyptian, Miriam could come from myr or mr, meaning “beloved” or “love”, respectively. Bear in mind that this was not an accident of birth, or happenstance. I am of middle-eastern descent, and while I could take the time to parse out exactly where my ancestors came from, I feel that it would be a waste of time and energy. Not to mention I was “lucky” enough to be born with light skin, so most of my fellow Americans instantly assume me to be of primarily European descent. If they even _understand_ biology beyond skin color. Love (and a rebellious nature) practically runs through the family's blood, thus many “interracial relationships” have taken place — regardless of time period and social acceptability. I digress. Let’s place my strongest blood ties around Egypt, for this explanation, to keep things brief.

We all know of religion, and religious texts. North America seems to only know and understand “Christianity” and “Not Christianity”, regardless of its ties to other denominations, like Judaism, Paganism, and if you dig, approximately a million other things. I’d like to talk about Moses, a featured character in many religious texts, at least one of which you have likely heard at some point in your life.

If you partake in Jewish Feminism and/or set out a cup for Miriam along with Elijah, then you already know all this, and do not necessarily need this explained.

Moses, if you believe the religious texts, was a prophet. A prophet and an Egyptian prince, author of the Torah. There’s even a few movies about him! If you’re a proud fan of Disney and animated movies, you’ve probably at least heard of _Prince of Egypt_. You’ve also likely heard the phrase, “Let my people go,” have you not? Perhaps not. Maybe my upbringing metaphorically tints my metaphorical glasses. Moses was raised to a royal family, brought death upon a slave master, and became a figure who turned his life to freeing slaves, said to have parted the Red Sea to lead his people on an Exodus to the Promised Land.

Miriam was that man’s older sister, and when the Pharaoh ordered all of his kind dead, she followed the river that their mother floated him down, watching over and protecting him. Her name could very well come from the very rebellion that Moses later incited.

Again, if you believe the religious texts.

 

* * *

 

 

I know a lot of things. Miscellaneous information, mostly. I know how to make basic herbal tinctures in case there’s no ointment or antiseptic nearby. I know the basics of several forms of martial arts, and I specialize in wielding a bō staff. I can quickly summarize the history of various luxuries, from chewing gum made of tree resin to the varnishes used in ancient civilizations that we know now as nail polish. To call me a Jack of All Trades would be an understatement. And, as they say, a Jack of all trades is a Master of none. What I don’t know is complex theoretical physics, universal theory, or advanced mathematics. I don’t understand the ideas behind time travel, or how exactly the multiverse theory works. For everything I’ve thought I might need to know but couldn’t memorize, I’ve printed out and collected pages to add to my own ramshackle encyclopedia. A binder of first aid tips with a folder on puncture wounds. A stapled together packet of wild herbs and recipes to make with them. Note cards with anxiety management tips. But a homemade archive and an SD card on your phone can only hold so much information. It can only help the world make so much sense. Some things you can’t understand without that innate experience.

When I played the Dragon Age series, I didn’t understand how people could be so prejudiced. The same could be said of my real world understanding. I never understood why blood magic was so feared, only that I had to pretend to fear it myself. I didn’t understand why people so reverently despised elves, although with a somewhat bitter humour, I decided it fitting that I would be born and would happen to play something that earned me such scorn. Poor Mir’lana Surana. Two of the most hated things in her society and destined to fade into obscurity even among the fandom. My condolences. I will never understand why the world sees you as they do, but I shall continue to understand you. As an individual.

I don’t understand theoretical physics, I don’t understand prejudice. I don’t understand JavaScript, and I don’t understand politics. I have an ever-growing list of things I do not understand. I can list them out, either in alphanumeric order, or by level of comprehension. I will allow you the pleasure of investigating this list of mine, as it currently stands.

Things I Do Not Understand:

  * What the fuck is happening to me.
  * What the fuck is wrong with my hand.
  * Why the fuck my head hurts so bad.
  * ~~Why I can’t stop crying.~~ [Not unusual, will likely pass.]




	2. Disillusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The human brain is an awful and torturous thing. First it says, "Haha, I understand perfectly what's happening." And then suddenly, "Oh my God!" and "I'm going to die here!" You just can't seem to catch a break these days.

There’s the vague notion of a memory in my mind. I blink, see rushing water. Green light, and a hand reaching out to me.

Stumbling.

Fear.

_**What’s going on?!** _

And heat. Heat that didn’t burn my skin, but scorched my mind.

Memories flash in the back of my head in a form that reminds me not of memories but the memory of memories. You lost something. You don’t remember putting it down, but you do remember making note of where you put it down. You recall what you left behind, when you left it behind, not where.

I am aware of being aware, but not aware of the world around me. My chest tightens, and suddenly I’m drowning.

Am I drowning? Did I drown first, or fall first?

When did the fire reach me?

I can’t remember, can’t hold on to it. But I remember desperation.

_**Please… Save me…** _

I recall someone, somewhere, far away it seems but I felt them close, pained.

_“I am so sorry.”_

I cry, and it hurts, and electricity races through my bones.

 

Someone calls out to me, asks me to stay awake. I have to fight.

I don’t want to fight, though.

Or do I? I don’t remember.

Thump, thump, thump. Hard, loud footfalls on stone reverberate through my head. Muffled, like hearing the music from some other house’s party.

_“…has a fever.”_

Sweat drips down my forehead and I gasp for breath.

 

…

Pat, pat, pat… Softer footfalls this time, softer on my ears that seem to hear everything. Too loud.

_**Too loud.** _

They startle. Whoever they are.

Someone wraps my hands in chains when the left half of my body begins to burn.

 

* * *

 

 

When I wake up — _when did I fall asleep?_ I wonder — my head begins to pound. Although I don’t feel tired, I sure as hell don’t feel well rested. Sore neck, stiff back, aching knees. _Something is wrong._ It feels like pins and needles as an itch at my scalp cuts the thought short. My arms don’t respond when I try to scratch. I feel the light but strenuous tugging of muscle, will my arms to rise, but they don’t. It takes a concentrated effort but I open my eyes, eyelids heavy. Cool air laid gently on my cheeks. _I’m burning up,_ my brain tells me. Accusatory. _Chains are too tight… Itches. Hot. Oh God._ And it hits me all at once. There are only inches between me and a terrible panic attack. At first I think it might be anxiety — _where are my pills,_ I ask myself quietly. But then I realize my surroundings and I know that this claustrophobic feeling is entirely warranted. It’s a responsive fear.

Stone walls surround me and heavy, metal restraints bind my wrists together. My mind begins to race, as it is wont to do. Freaky place? Freaky circumstance? Freaky fucking glowy hand? Definitely panic and not anxiety. I still want to find my pills, though. My mind keeps telling me that I’m likely to need enough sedatives to put down a full grown elephant if I stay here any longer. With a shaking breath, quiet as a mouse, I attempt to understand my circumstances.

 _Have I been kidnapped?_ If that were so, maybe I could reason with the kidnapper, explain that my family would be unable to afford ransom money. _Were they going to harvest my organs?_ Surely they would reconsider if I explained that my blood type was AB, and that I was a bad donor! Trying to think of other possibilities, my guts churn. Nope, too late. Hyper-focusing on the concept of kidnapping. Murder doesn’t even strike me as a possibility, as that would be too merciful a fate, and Heavens know my brain can’t let me catch a break. That would make life far too easy.

Luckily, perhaps, my thinking is interrupted. Unluckily, I find myself so absorbed in the pain and the fear that I’m less than prepared for the door to slam open, causing the floor to quake slightly. I would be more than happy to tell you that even under extreme pressure I am calm and articulate. Sadly, I would be lying through my teeth. Instead of extrapolating, I shriek. The girliest, most terrified shriek I have ever shrieked in my life.

I assume it sounds a bit like, “AAAAAAAAH! Holy _FUCK!_ Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Don’t DO that I nearlypissedmyself _ohmyGod!”_ That is, if the flinch and the look on my captor’s face is any kind of indicator. I hang my head, panting, feeling my chest seize momentarily. Settling down seems nearly impossible, which is unfortunate, because I need to actually take in whoever’s holding me hostage. Technically I had seen her face, but the blood rushing through my brain kept me too distracted to process that bit of information. Shuddering out my last “calming” breath, the mark on my hand sparks, just slightly. The sudden, ripping sensation makes me cry out again. Softer than the previous shriek, for which I off-handedly thank my ruined vocal chords.

“Look at me,” a startlingly familiar voice demands. But I can’t. I can barely look at the faces of waitstaff at restaurants. I have to beg other people to do it for me. Forget looking at the face of whoever this person is! Especially if they sound familiar for some God-forsaken reason! That just makes it at least twenty-five times more suspicious and worrying.

“I said _look at me!”_

I cry as her rough grip takes my chin, ripping my head up to meet her gaze. I shut my eyes, tight. Lips quivering, I try to breath out some kind of response. All that comes is a wretched sob, and I silently berate myself for crying so openly. Looking weak, in front of someone would could obviously crush every single bone in my body if she wanted to. Processing information takes too much energy, too much courage, and all I want is to shut it out. But I know I have to answer her, somehow. _All I’ve done is make her angry._

“I-I’m s… s-!” I choke, gasping for air, and her grip on my face tightens. “I’m sorry!” I shout. I don’t know where I am, what I’m doing here, or who she is. But whatever I’ve done to upset her so… It’s gotta be bad. How could I not be sorry? What have I done? Soon I would near my breaking point. I hope and pray to a God I don’t believe in that she won’t push me that far. It was difficult to recover the pride I always lost when that happened.

She pushes a near snarl from the back of her throat. “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

Something about that. It makes a thin thread inside of me snap. The shuddering breaths and choking halt, all at once. Every muscle in my body tenses, and I feel my heart hammering against my ribcage, begging release. My head turns of its own volition to her, eyes fluttering open at last.

Cassandra Pentaghast. The Seeker herself stands before me, glaring, eyes glazed over either in unbridled rage, or unbridled loss. Water forms beads in my eyes as we share the heavy silence. I can’t move, can’t even find it in myself to blink. The raw emotion in her gaze captures me, and all at once I break. One tear slides down my cheek. Followed by another. Two more, in rapid succession. Suddenly the world’s wet, blurry, and more confusing than ever. I'm hyperventilating and the resulting hypocapnia has me dizzy and just on the verge of delirious.

“The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead,” she continues, a poison in her voice I’m completely unfamiliar with. _“Except for you.”_

Previously, my brain decided it wouldn’t process anything. Now? Everything is being processed at once. Time seems almost to halt as I realize I’ve been surrounded by guards all this time. Leliana had, at some point, appeared by Cassandra’s side. Almost blending into the darkness. The air has been filled with hostility and I can hear some leak, somewhere, with every single drip. Leliana was grabbing Cassandra’s arm, and I saw her lips move but I heard nothing. Realization dawns on me, at last. My brain finished rooting through the trivial and unimportant, and landed on what it was trying to ignore earlier.

Cassandra and Leliana are in front of me. Looking at me, talking to me. And more than that, they’re more real than I can remember. There is real coldness in Leliana’s eyes, real animosity in Cassandra’s… Everything. The vice grip on her sword’s handle, as if she’s one wrong word from executing me. The telltale redness on her lower eyelids that gives away that she cried before coming here to confront me. Others probably thought she was tired, or angry. But I know those eyes. Too well. Completely forgetting that everything is completely 3-dimensional, that she had grabbed me, what shakes me is how human everyone in the room feels. When Leliana stalks closer to me, seemingly in slow motion, I feel her body heat. I can smell her perfume — likely meant to come off as elegantly floral. It smells like poison to me. Leliana comes face-to-face with me, and I distractedly note the shimmer in her eyeshadow. It doesn’t look fake and glossy, like on screen. It glitters, twinkles as the torch lights flicker. Her gaze, cold and calculating, a bizarre juxtaposition to the golden embellishment. I wonder to myself if this world has lipstick in similar hues. Some lazy part of my brain informs me, unhelpfully, _that would be the hypocapnia talking._

It is her next comment that really throws me.

“You play the innocent damsel in distress well,” she remarks, lip quirking in a way far more threatening than it needs to be, showing the barest hint of a canine. Her accent is just as thick in life as it was in virtual reality. Perhaps even heavier. But it flows more naturally, an easy testament to her years mixing with other cultures, dialect adjusting to fit. I will never stop being impressed by voice actors, but there was no way to accurately capture the intonation of an Orlesian spymaster — especially given that they did not actually exist. In my world, anyway. She sighs, pushes herself back up into a standing position, gazing disdainfully down at me in a show of dominance.

“However, it is lost on me. I can play that role just as well as you.”

My mind shakes as I realize the heavy deviation from the script. I should have seen it coming. Game dialog in titles like Dragon Age need to be properly vague. In RPGs where you create the character… You could look like anyone, anything, and characters don’t make note of any of your unique features. Another player’s character may not have them. But this isn’t a game. I’ve come to terms with that surprisingly quick. There are many things it could be, I do not currently have the time or energy to debate them, but this is at least real in some sense. Not a game.

I am not generic. They can see me, the real me, laid bare in front of them. And they would pass judgment on the woman they thought they saw there. Evidently, I strike Leliana as a spy playing a routine. “Damsel in distress”, evidently. Fitting, however condescending it may be. I can’t even be upset. Cassandra was properly struck with grief of the loss of a life that was intimately entwined with her own — as she should have been. Everything is already different, and that frightens me. I haven’t even made any decisions yet and I find myself already unsure that anything will happen the way I expect it to.

Cassandra snorts, already tired of Leliana’s tactics. For just a split moment I’m almost, just a little, tempted to inform her that Leliana would have a much easier time scaring information out of me than her. Luckily, I’m not given time.

“Tell us your name,” Cassandra demands. My eyes shoot open wide, surprised. I had nearly forgotten. People have names. No, saying it like that sounds dumb. I mean… It never really struck me how, in game, the characters never actually asked you for your name. It’s obvious looking back, that really wouldn’t work, but the concept had just fit so smoothly into the game that it’s almost jarring to be confronted with it now. So soon. It makes sense, why wouldn’t it? Identify the intruder. It should be priority number one. But I… just wasn’t ready for that question. My mind blanks, unfocused.

But then her blade is at my throat, and I retract my earlier mental quip.

“Your name or your life, prisoner!”

I squeal reflexively, falling backwards away from the _very dangerous-looking sword_. All I can do is screech in response, “Miriam! My name is Miriam!”

Both of the women furrow their eyebrows, seemingly torn between shocked and skeptical. My eyes snap back open, horror dawning on me as I realize Cassandra had squeezed my name right out of me. It was such a knee-jerk reaction, I didn’t even think first. There isn’t really any harm in telling them my real name (I think), but perhaps an alias would have been nice. I could have spun a story, ala Varric Tethras, and covered it up with a more legitimate sounding name. I have no idea if my name even sounds like it comes from this world. It’s going to put a serious damper on the whole “new world, new life, clean slate” concept. They speak to each other in hushed whispers, and I pick up only small pieces.

“Sounds elven to me…” something, something, “Dalish…”

“…maybe…”

A quick pause.

“…markings…?”

Something, something…

“Circle mage…”

Their eyes shoot over to me. _I’m caught!_ They move further away, lowering their voices yet again, and the blood still rushing through my head it drowns out the last of the sound. I can only make so many inferences through their words. I’m startled for a moment that they first spoke of the Dalish. Even more startled that they did not immediately reject the idea. I’ve read the stories, you know? Magical teleportation, fantasy races, the works. I furrow my brow, concerned that perhaps I appeared suddenly in this world with pointed ears. Although, I understand well that there are elf-blooded people who are, for all intents and purposes, human. Alistair, for example, of whom Leliana must know well. Unless... Well, it's true that he might not even know. In fact, calling on only vague recollections of the first game... No, it wouldn't make sense for them to assume that. No one would. While it's completely possible that Alistair could have learned of his heritage, it's highly unlikely. It can be difficult to parse out what I know versus what they know. I make a mental note to spend time recalling whatever I can, and not releasing any information _I shouldn't know._

So, that begs the question. Have I suddenly turned up looking completely Elvhen. Have I? If I have, do I have Vallaslin? I shudder at the thought. Even more worry follows. Do I, perhaps, look like my first Inquisitor? Powdery blue homage to Mythal curving over my cheekbones? Most definitely not my second, for neither Cassandra nor Leliana made any mention of my being a great, lumbering Qunari. Perhaps my third or fourth, with Vallaslin just peachy enough to almost blend in with my skin? Playing Dragon Age: Inquisition, I liked to imagine not all elf characters had to be Dalish. Sadly, the character creator gave one no choice in the matter. I had to play with the color slider for half an hour, looking for that perfect tone that would vanish in my character’s skin.

I’m banking on that, honestly. It’s almost certainly wishful thinking, but I’m banking on it. They mentioned what I assumed to be the Vallaslin, moving on to another theory. That begs that they either can’t see any, or I simply don’t have any. For a moment I doubt that I might be so lucky, but a woman can hope. I lose myself so deeply in theorizing that I yelp yet again when Cassandra calls to me — _“Girl!”_ — and Leliana not-so-gracefully poses her next question. Admittedly, my face falls. First in expression, then in color, when I realize why they did not instantly dismiss their Dalish Theory.

“How _old_ are you, girl?”

They think that I’m a child! Young enough to not have earned the Vallaslin yet! Evidently, my expression answers their question well enough. I don’t notice until I hear their snickering ( _at my expense, truly?!_ ). My mouth is open wide in exasperation, eyebrows nearly up to my hairline. Huffing indignantly, I turn my head away from them. Color begins returning to my face. Rapidly. Too rapidly. Now I’m blushing fiercely. _Try to reason it out, Miri._ It isn’t like these situations are terribly uncommon… If I go out to eat with my family (if I _went_ out, my brain corrects, with little sadness) I get strange looks, waiters torn between which menu to give me. I get discount admission to amusement parks, movies…

 _"I’m sorry, but is she young or just…_ Really _short?"_

_"You… Want to buy a lottery ticket? You realize you have to be—… **Oh!** "_

_"Is this ID fake? It doesn’t look fake, but…"_

Eventually my face cools off, rolling over the memories and focusing on the humor behind their reactions. It’s all worth it for the reactions. Cassandra returns to me, her expression just a touch closer to neutral than before. Still worried, still angry, but it seems to be in general tone rather than directed at me.

“Leliana believes you are not our culprit, however suspicious you may seem,” she begins. Her tone is demanding, even though she’s just relaying information. Her presence is endlessly pressuring. Far more intimidating than her 3D model. “That does not,” she pauses to look me dead in the eye, and I nod, “mean you are innocent. Not yet.”

“Th-that’s fair,” I manage to breathe out, nodding sympathetically.

Leliana moves in, staring at me with a shit-eating grin. “Anyone powerful enough to destroy the conclave would not send someone like you to do the dirty work,” she elaborates. When I furrow my brows in question, she continues. “You are far too expressive, ‘Miriam’.” I can hear the air quotes in her voice, and feel torn. On one hand, I take great offense that she would insult my name. It’s a good name. I like my name. On the other hand, maybe I can still roll out an alias.

She turns, leaving a lingering gaze. The look she gives me says volumes. I’m beneath her. I’m easy to see through. She could do it better. Leliana won’t hear any argument from me. The woman has mastered delicacy, subtlety — she plays The Game. Show enough to seem genuine, but not so much as to inform others of your acting skills. Or lack thereof. It’s incredibly likely that they still do not believe me. They might still think I’m some sort of spy or… something. But if I am, to them, it isn’t the one behind the conclave. I show too much and hide too little. Understandable. I’m a grown woman who’s still a crybaby. Never grew out of it. Some people can’t believe that that’s even physically possible. I hole myself up completely, or not at all. People have told me I seem “flat”, like a caricature more than a real person. It all can seem quite synthetic.

I like the strange sort of mystery it seems to give me. I can tell the truth and yet it still seems a secret because no one believes me. Leaves them guessing. Awkward, unreliable, and a bit disheartening at times. But fun when you spin it right. You learn to either live with it, or outright love it.

Cassandra motions for me to stand, and so I do.

Or… I try. My legs give out under me, and yet again I make a fool of myself by letting out an unholy screech as I fall straight on my face. Cassandra looks surprised and more than a little dubious, I note, as I try sitting up again. Leliana simply looks exasperated. An image in my mind flashes back to middle school nurses who didn’t believe in chronic illnesses and it takes nearly all my focus to shove the thoughts down and try again. Try to figure it out. Instead of standing all at once, though it obviously displeases them, I try shuffling around and bending one knee. As I thought, there’s almost no feeling there. What little feeling there is is utter pain. Worry overcomes my fears and I look up to Cassandra, trying to ignore the angry glint in Leliana’s eye.

“My… My legs. They feel… It feels almost like they've atrophied,” I say, though I didn’t have the bravery to raise my voice above a soft whisper. She cocks an eyebrow. I sigh. “My legs… My _everything_ feels like I haven’t used it in a long time. My muscles are weak,” I explain, urging her to understand. Offhandedly, I add a question: “How long have I been here? I don’t remember…” I intended to add some other word or phrase, like “much”, or “how I got here”. Problem was, I couldn’t recall what I did and didn’t know. I don’t remember falling through any otherworldly portal. I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember dying. None of the typical stuff. It feels like when you wake up mid-dream, you know? I have memories of life on Earth, though I don’t know if I should tell her that yet. I remember my house, my parents, and even recently working on an art commission for someone online. Being frustrated when the power went out and I hadn’t saved. But it’s all one big blur in my mind.

“Your legs will not get better by sitting. Come,” she… encourages? Even if she’s right, I’m bordering on terrified that whatever happened to me, I might need months of physical therapy to recover. Seems I was wrong, however, and I hadn’t managed to separate logic from anxiety. She hoists me up easily, I yelp, and she holds me up by grabbing onto one shoulder and keeping her free hand on my lower back. With that help, I have just enough strength to balance on legs that feel like jello. Leliana sighs to herself, likely not buying my story. I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at her, but with the recent accusation of being a child, I think better.

“One step at a time, let’s go.”

Cassandra is surprisingly patient with me. Either she has just enough faith in me after watching me fall apart (dear God I’m going to cry over this later, I just know it), or she figures that playing along is the quickest and easiest way to get me to follow her commands.

Again, there would be no argument from me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters might get longer, that would be nice! I feel like I need room to express all the little nuances of the characters.


	3. Corporeal

Leliana had work to attend to. Finding the real cause of the explosion at the conclave, I presume. Good luck, Leliana. Good luck. We’re assured that she’ll meet us at the forward camp. Cassandra guides me out of the prison, step by step. Games have limited space, limited time for cut scenes, and limited patience for cutaways and fades to black. This is something I acknowledge as I realize the exit is not straight ahead and into the snow. We are well and truly underground, and in some measure I respect that.

It’s silent for the first leg of our (surprisingly arduous) journey. Perhaps it isn’t as long a trek as I feel. The shaking legs could be making it exponentially worse. And then, while mid-step, I’m reminded of why we’re down here in the first place. The mark flares, suddenly, and I’ve allowed myself to be caught off guard again. It hurts… It hurts worse than I know how to say. And I scream out, tears coming out far too easily in my fragile state. My legs fall out from under me, and Cassandra has just enough warning to catch me by one bound arm, grimacing as I heave for breath.

“I am sorry,” she consoles. “The pain must be excruciating.”

It’s a tough jab. I realize, all at once, that the mark on my hand probably isn’t even that bad. The Inquisitor always seemed to cry out more in shock than in pain, from what I recall. You don’t expect lightning to suddenly ring in your bones, after all. But it’s like having a tooth pulled to me.

I don’t have the heart to explain that I’m just… Squishy. Even more so than normal Earth-inhabiting humans. I imagine this would be foreign to anyone back on Earth, more painful than the Inquisitor makes it seem. These people are tough, hardened, used to pain. And thinking back to how I was considered delicate even among my peers at school, work, home… It puts things in perspective. I’m terribly fragile, delicate. And it’s going to put me in a lot of painful positions, I worry. For a moment, I think that perhaps the pain would shake at least nobles from this world. And then I realize that many people in high society tend to have some kind of disciplinary training. Fencing, horseback riding. Even the squishy people are likely more fit than me. I feel like I’ve really gotten the short end of the stick.

Cassandra gives me an awkward pat on the back when I sigh.

Eventually, I take in enough breath to steady myself. Even if it hurts, we need to push on. I know she doesn’t know that I understand, but I do. The sooner we stabilize The Breach, the better. It would be a very good idea to keep myself from dying before we even begin. So we do. We push on. And she attempts to push a bit more information out of me on the way.

“Do you have any idea what the mark upon your hand is, Miriam?”

It’s difficult not to roll my eyes out of their sockets. She has no idea, and I’m torn between amused, distraught, and tired all at once. It’s going to be difficult to tell the truth without saying too much too soon, but I have too much respect for her to lie to her from the start.

“I wish I could say. I know it’s painful. That’s something, right?”

She rolls her eyes. I never said I _didn’t_ know, though…

“That is… helpful. Do you recall how you got it?”

“I do not. My apologies.”

There's something to be said for being able to tell the whole truth. I know, theoretically, how I _should_ have come to be like this. But I honestly have no idea. The memory is completely nonexistent. _Worrying._

“Do you know how you got here?” Cassandra sighs. She must be tired of the dead ends I’m giving her.

“My apologies, again… I’m really quite confused myself, believe me. I am… Not even sure where I _came_ from.”

She’s still leading, and only looks at me from the corner of her eye. It seems to upset her, but I can’t tell if she thinks I’m lying, or if it’s a look of pity.

The rest of the walk is silent.

 

The air feels tense as we approach a set of large doors. Presumably to the outside. I understand when Cassandra stops us, just short.

“I apologize for waiting until now. We kept your… _Things_ here, away from you. Surely you can understand why we would be suspicious.” I give her a questioning look, explaining once again that I don’t remember arriving here. Much less that I had “things” with me. I’m clueless, I insist. She grunts, unlocking and opening a large chest just inside the doorway. At first glance it appears empty, save a familiar, dusty pink satchel. It make sense, I argue with myself. However I got here, it makes sense I would have my bag with me. That bag comes everywhere, just in case. The mother hen of the (very) limited friends I had back home, and a delicate flower as some would say, I like to be prepared. Bandages, neosporin, those documents. Even little, seemingly inconsequential things like hard candy and a stress toy or two. Everything I thought I would need in the most dire of circumstances I kept in there. I wonder how much of it will actually help on another world. Would our antibacterial creams work on another world’s infections? I wonder. And I worry. I worry that they rifled through my things, which I’m sure they did, and wonder if they understood what any of it meant.

Remembering my modern assets shakes me, causing my brain to essentially restart and take in my surroundings again. I notice something very, very important and very, very worrisome. I notice two things, actually, as Cassandra unlocks the metal keeping my hands in a vice. It’s exchanged for only slightly more comfortable rope.

I’m trying desperately to steady my breathing, holding off another wave of panic when her voice rattles me.

“I have been meaning to ask…” She starts, eyeballing me. But she doesn’t look me in the eye. Her eyes move all over my face, just to the sides, the top of my head.

_My head._

Oh.

Oh no, that’s not good.

“Your hair is… Pink?”

 

_Okay. Fuck. Fucking… It’s okay._

My brain is banging together pots and pans, screaming, demanding I freak out. I’m not ready. Oh, dear Lord in Heaven above, I am not ready.

Too panicked for an excuse, I brush it off. “Long story,” I had say, attempting to reach out for my satchel. Desperate to feel in control of the situation for at least a moment. But she squints at me, holding the bag away.

“I am bringing it with us. You may have it back when I deem you trustworthy.”

I huff, feeling helpless. Were it any other person, in any other situation, I would have knocked them on their ass, grabbed my things, and ran. But here? Now? _Her?_ I don’t think so! Still, I shift uncomfortably. Because of the rush of emotions, panic and anxiety, fear and confusion, everything happening all at once… I hadn’t noticed before, but it’s cold. Extremely pissing cold. At first I figure it’s because… Well, because it’s cold. But no. Luck does not have it that the cold be the icing on the cake. No. It has to be my clothing. Thankfully not something so ludicrous as a crop top and shorts, or a tailored suit, or any other of the million things that the inhabitants of my world could have been wearing. But well enough, it’ll probably be difficult to traverse the snow in a white sun dress. Honestly, I should not be to blame! It had been spring, _spring!_ I worked at a _farmer’s market_ , a small-time baker, back when I still had a job! A simple dress and gladiator flats worked just fine for me. But the dress barely reaches my knees, and my shoulders are practically bare.

I’m lucky that it doesn’t seem to come off as indecent. I recall some of the Qunari armor and count my blessings. The thought does not, however, banish the cold. My teeth start to chatter.

As I reach up, struggling in my bonds, to rub my shoulders at the thought, Cassandra relents.

“Do you have anything in your bag that might help?”

I nod. I grin. Finally, something goes _my_ way! “Yes, just… There’s a—”

Before I can even finish, Cassandra starts rummaging around in my satchel. _Oh no._ She pulls it out. _Oh yes!_

“My shawl!” I exclaim, clapping my still tightly-bound hands together. The look on her face tells me it must be amusing, and my heart warms with the hope of a simple distraction. With her help, we wrap the red cashmere around my shoulders.  _Ah,_ I can already feel it driving away the cold… I can’t help but smile as I think of how much better it would feel after absorbing some of my body’s heat. She slings my satchel over her shoulder and we proceed to the outside. Though the wind still cuts through me, my heart holds tightly to the idea that it is better than it could be. Still, the mirth is short-lived.

I can’t keep my eyes from the sky, not really. I know The Breach. What it is, how it got there, how to stop it. But being in the presence of it is… Something else entirely. Plenty of fandom writers, fanfiction authors, have their interpretations. After all, as it stands computer-generated graphics can only do so much. Words, though... They can paint pictures of ideas that can't even physically exist. Some imagine it's like a wound in the sky. Torn fabric. Shattered glass. Honestly, I was vying for The Breach to look like space itself was opening up. Wrong, I guess. In a way. I guess… It just doesn’t look real.

A cursory glance reveals the shape of a typhoon, whirling, swirling, and twisting in a chaotic but admittedly beautiful dance. Complete with clouds and rising earth. Depending on the light, whether or not lightning drips from the floating abyss, the color changes. At times it's a muddy, mossy green. Just before a flare, it's an incredible emerald. And then the color evens out, clear and healthy like fresh grass.

A column drifts lazily to the ground, though one assumes it must be chaotic up close. I'm shocked to find that it isn't at all like a tear in the sky, but rather like a hole. Like the Fade was Heaven, floating above the clouds, and it's begun to drain into the physical world.

_Drip, drip, drip..._

But when you focus... It looks almost like a hologram, somehow. Looking at it from different angles seems to warp its dimensions — an ever-changing, pulsing visage almost akin to an object made of pure light. It isn’t uniform. Looking directly at it is like looking into water, like the reflection is distorted. Or looking into a concave lens as if through a microscope. Or, if you’ve never used a microscope, the reflection off the dip in a spoon. It honestly boggles my mind, and I nearly miss the way it sends electricity down my spine.

My knees shake for what seems like the hundredth time. I have no way of knowing if it is the degradation of my muscles or some side effect of The Breach/Mark. Part of me doesn’t even wish to know. Through heavily-lidded eyes, I watch the Breach flare and sputter — _Drip, drip, drip..._  — in time with my hand. I’m given a moment to thank that it is but a remnant of the previous… Sparks. And then Cassandra is standing in front of me. Shielding my eyes from The Breach, drawing my attention.

“I am sure you have already figured this out, but…”

Silence sits heavy in the air. She turns to regard The Breach with a sad, soft sigh. And she fixes me with a steeled gaze again.

“We call it ‘The Breach’. It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.” She pauses, just a moment. But it says enough.

“It’s growing, expanding, and my mark with it.”

She nods solemnly.

“Unless we act, The Breach may grow until it swallows the world. And I do not need to remind you that the same applies to your mark. _To you._ ”

Bad news is never easy to hear suddenly. Not even when you already knew it. But the static running through my hand, through my body, and the tone of her voice… It makes it too real. It’s as though she’s already convinced that I’m dead, and that the world is doomed. But she’s still trying to stop it.

Cassandra’s eyes are glazed over, somewhere far away, and I wonder if she’s even really with me in this moment. Taking her in, being like this, puts a hole in my belly. She’s _real_ , so real. A real woman, affected by this world. And in less than twenty-four hours, she lost one of the most prominent, influential figures in her life… She, along with everyone else, lost the hope that the Conclave could have brought. She, a non-magical human, is sitting in a pool of Fade and Demons, witnessing unparalleled destruction surround her and her people.

But she still hasn’t completely given up. The world is ending around her, and she’s determined to do whatever she can to fix it.

I’ve never felt this mix of both inspiration and guilt before. It’s… It’s an unpleasant feeling. So I reach out, laying a hand on her shoulder, despite my own anxiety.

“Obviously you need me. The mark, anyway. If it’s connected to The Breach, it may be the key to closing it. I’ll do whatever I can, Cassandra. We can fix this.”

The way life springs alive in her eyes has me on the verge of tears. I’ve cried enough for a week, but I get the feeling I’m going to cry more before the day is over.

She tries not to smile, to get her hopes up. But her voice is still markedly less distraught when she tells me, “Thank you. That is… The best news I have heard in some time.”

It’s easier, now, to walk with her out into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An average of 2.5k is a good chapter length right?


End file.
